The Defector

Russia into a normal capitalist country overnight. It wasn’t possible. It was utopian thinking, just like Communism.”
    “I remember, Viktor. I was there, too.”
    “Then you surely recall what it was like for people like me who were able to make a bit of money. Everyone wanted a piece of it. Our lives were in constant danger, along with the lives of our families. There was the mafia, of course, but sometimes our competitors were just as dangerous. Everyone hired private armies to protect themselves and to wage war on their rivals. It was the Wild East.”
    Orlov held the goblet of wine up to the light. Heavy and rich, it glowed like freshly spilled blood.
    “There was no shortage of soldiers. No one wanted to work for the government anymore, not when there was real money to be made in the private sector. Officers were leaving the Russian security services in droves. Some didn’t bother to quit their jobs. They just put in an hour or two at the office and moonlighted.”
    Olga had once written an exposé about this practice—a story about a pair of FSB officers who investigated the Russian mafia by day and killed for them by night. The FSB men had vehemently denied the story. Then they had threatened to kill her.
    “Some of these men weren’t very talented,” Orlov continued. “They could handle simple jobs, street killings and the like. But there were others who were highly trained professionals.” Orlov studied the photograph. “This man fell into the second category.”
    “You’ve met him?”
    He hesitated, then nodded. “It was in Moscow, in another lifetime. I’m not going to discuss the nature or circumstances of this meeting.”
    “I don’t care about the meeting, Viktor. I only want to know about the man in that photograph.”
    He drank some more of the wine and relented. “His KGB code name was Comrade Zhirlov. He specialized in assassinations, abductions, and finding men who wished not to be found. He was also supposed to be very good with poisons and toxins. He put those skills to good use when he went into private practice. He did the kind of jobs others might refuse because they were too dangerous. It made him rich. He worked inside Russia for a few years, then broadened his horizons.”
    “Where did he go?”
    “Western Europe. He speaks several languages and has many passports from his days with the KGB.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “Who knows? And I doubt even the famous Olga Sukhova will be able to find him. In fact, I highly recommend you forget about trying. You’ll only get yourself killed.”
    “Obviously, he’s still selling his services on the open market.”
    “That is what I’ve heard. I’ve also heard his prices have increased dramatically. Only men like Ivan Kharkov can afford to hire him any longer.”
    “And you , Viktor.”
    “I’ve never engaged in such things.”
    “And no one is making that accusation. But let us suppose one required the services of a man like this. How would one make contact with him? Where would one go?”
    Viktor lapsed into silence. He was a Russian—and like all Russians, he suspected someone was always listening. In this case, he happened to be correct. For a moment, the two men seated in the back of the MI5 surveillance van feared their source was unwilling to take the final step. Then they heard a single word that required no translation.
    Geneva .
    . . .

    THERE WAS a man there, Orlov said. A security consultant to wealthy Russians. A broker. A middleman.
    “I believe his name is Chernov. Yes, I’m sure of it now. Chernov.”
    “Does he have a first name?”
    “It might be Vladimir.”
    “Do you happen to know where he keeps his office?”
    “Just off the rue du Mont-Blanc. I believe I might have the address.”
    “You wouldn’t have a telephone number, would you?”
    “Actually, I might have his mobile.”

    UNDER NORMAL circumstances, Gabriel would never have bothered to write down the name and telephone number. Now, with his wife in Ivan’s hands, he did not trust his usually flawless memory. By the time he had finished jotting down the information, Olga was slipping through Viktor’s wrought-iron gate. A taxi collected her and brought her around the corner to Cheyne Gardens. Gabriel climbed in next to her and headed to London City Airport, where an American-supplied Gulfstream G500 was waiting. The rest of his team was already on board, along with its newest addition, Sarah Bancroft. The tower log would